feels like oil,
slipping between your fingers like the grease on baked chicken.
Like the soap you use to wash off that oil,
it cleans you
and stings you.
It feels like dog hair,
leaving its must and stench on your palms as it jogs off.
Like warm blankets, making you sweat and dream of what may have been,
what could be,
The only thing it never feels like
is the rough skin of the thief,
stealing everything away.
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